


Edelweiss and Ambrosia

by rogue_queen



Series: The Language of Flowers [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, In which Jaime somewhat reluctantly does something good, Jaime Lannister Has Issues, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Married Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Sansa Stark Has Issues, Sansa marries Jaime instead of Tyrion, Tags to be added as characters are introduced, Unreliable Narrator, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28567965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rogue_queen/pseuds/rogue_queen
Summary: In Tywin's attempt to secure a lasting Lannister legacy he accidentally makes a love match for his son.ORAfter Cersei rebuffs his affections on account of his missing hand, Jaime can't think of a single good reason to refuse his father's parental decree.ORAfter Tyrion is unable to protect her from Joffrey, Sansa is willing to do anything to escape Kings Landing.Even if that means pretending to fall in love with the Kingslayer.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark
Series: The Language of Flowers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104605
Comments: 76
Kudos: 197





	1. Jaime 1

Father sat at his desk in the Hand’s chambers, shuffling and reorganising his paperwork, flanked by two impassive guardsmen garbed in Lannister red. It made for an impressive picture, no doubt meticulously curated over the years to intimidate petitioners and lower lords and impress those of equal or higher standing. Of course, as the Hand of the King, there was no longer any higher authority, save that of the King, but it was always good to remind one’s lesser of their place. As his father continued to shuffle through the papers in front of him, Jaime had to wonder how much of this was necessary and whether his father was drawing out the moment to discomfit his son. A power play such as this had never boded well for the Lannister children. Jaime remembered many such an occasion as a youth when he would be presented to his father in the wake of some mischief or misdeed and would be forced to squirm as the Lord Lannister had ignored him in favour of paperwork until father had judged him unbalanced enough and set down the paper with a sigh and an unyielding look fixed in his flat green eyes.

Of course, as an adult, Jaime now had a few of his own tricks up his sleeves, or sleeve as it was. The loss of his hand limited him somewhat, no longer could he fish the small knife out of his boot and set to obnoxiously cleaning his nails, but he was determined not to let this stop him. With a sigh he launched himself to his feet and set about poking about the ornaments decorating his father’s opulent suite. The bookshelves were covered in military and history works from all over the known lands, most of which Jaime had been forced to read and regurgitate to his father during his brief tenure as his father’s heir. There were some new additions from across the Narrow Sea, but none which immediately piqued his interest. So he moved on. The fruit bowl on the corner table was full of ripe fruit, no doubt fresh from Highgarden’s orchards. He helped himself to an apple, though he would have preferred an orange he was not about to lower himself to asking for help peeling the damned thing.

Wandering over to the large open window Jaime found a pride of golden lions arranged artfully to capture the morning sun, no doubt to draw the eyes of visitors and impress upon them the wealth of their liege. Reaching out with his prosthetic Jaime tapped it against the outstretched paw of one of the lions, unfortunately not yet used to the limitations of his new hand, Jaime misjudged the force needed. With an oddly cheerful tinkle, the paw broke off of the body. A quick, furtive glance behind himself revealed his father still at work, apparently unaware of the accident. Jaime bit into the apple, securing it in his mouth and freeing his left hand to pick up the dismembered limb. An examination of the cross-section revealed that the lions were not the hollow-cast metal sculptures he had assumed, but rather gilded porcelain. Quickly repositioning the lion so that the missing limb would not be immediately obvious to the occupants of the room, Jaime decided to make a tactical retreat from the scene of his crime, but before he could decide where next to snoop his father cleared his throat. Jaime unobtrusively slipped the golden paw into one of the pouches on his belt and turned to face his father.

Tywin quirked an eyebrow at his son and gestured to the chair across from him. Jaime sat obediently, taking pains to sprawl across the seat, inasmuch as possible with the uncomfortable wooden chair. Tywin sighed and rubbed his temples.

“Well, if you’re quite finished skulking around my chambers,” Tywin began, “I would like to discuss with you the matter at hand.”

“And what matter would this be?” Jaime asked, grinning rakishly, “I’ve already debriefed with you about my brief sojourn with the Stark armies and my return travels, Uncle Kevan caught me up on military matters, and Tyrion covered events in the Capitol. What else is there to talk about?”

“The matter of your inheritance and future.” Tywin said, observing Jaime over steepled fingers.

“Father, you know that I forswore all land and titles when I was inducted into the Kingsguard. I have no inheritance and my future is to stand by the Iron Throne, guarding the Royal Family. There is nothing to discuss.”

Tywin pursed his lips, somehow managing to look both annoyed and pleased. “As it turns out, that path is no longer as permanent as once we thought. The dismissal of Barristan Selmy, ill-advised though it was, has opened up a new door for us. A post with the Kingsguard is no longer for life. Now that we have a precedent, it will be a simple matter for you to resign your position and step up once more as my heir.”

“And what if I refuse?” Jaime drawled, “how will that factor into your plans?”

Tywin chuckled; “Your agreement is not needed, though it would save us some time. I need only speak to the boy and he’ll dismiss you for me. Selmy was dismissed due to concerns his age would negatively impact the execution, it would be of no surprise to anyone should you be dismissed following the loss of your sword-hand. I’m merely giving you the option to allow you to save face, both your own and the family’s. Your consent is of no matter to me. This will happen, one way or another.”

Jaime suddenly felt exhausted, his bones weighed him down, anchoring him in place as he processed the grand scope of his father’s machinations. “I suppose you already have a wife chosen out for me? No doubt fair of face and impeccable of breeding.” Jaime muttered, unable to hide his bitterness.

Another choice stolen from him.

“Of course.” Tywin smiled; no doubt he felt his victory was assured. “A daughter of a Lord Paramount, from a family of proven fertility, no less.”

“Who?”

“The lady Sansa Stark.”

“No.” Jaime breathed, before finding his conviction. “No, she’s a _child_!”

His father regarded him coolly. “She is a woman flowered and grown, a lady of 18 name-days.”

“She’s half my age, less than even! Her brother kept me in a cage full of mud and my own waste to be mocked and abused for _moons_!”

“Lady Stark is innocent of the crimes of her family, and furthermore she is the only unattached woman of breeding age and appropriate familial status available to us. She has been groomed since birth to be the lady of a great keep, not only in social graces but also in the day-to-day running of a household and holding. You will not find a better-suited match in Westeros.”

“I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t slit my throat on our wedding night!” Jaime snapped.

“She will do no such thing. For one it’ll be made very clear to her that this is her best hope to escape King’s Landing and Joffrey’s spurious mercies. She’ll also immediately be lifted to a station far higher than any other match would grant her, one that will protect her from ever being as-” here Tywin paused, an ill-content look gracing his harsh features, “-maltreated as she has been since the death of her father. In addition to which, a strong and respected husband would provide her with yet more protection.”

Maltreated? Jaime knew that Joffrey was a cruel and capricious child, but surely he knew better that to abuse a noble hostage, particularly a young girl? He thought back to the Stark girl as he’d last known her, scant days before his altercation with her father in the streets. A girl of 15 name-days come to the capitol to wed her golden prince. She’d been a bit young, naïve in the way that all sheltered children are, still seeing the world in black and white, good and bad. Before his hasty retreat from the city, Cersei had complained that the girl was prone to fits of melancholy since the loss of her direwolf, and that it had been bestowed with a stupendously common name for a beast of legend, but she’d had a kind word for everyone.

A forgettable child, but not one he would have thought a likely target for the kind of violence Joffrey was prone to.

“While her situation is regrettable, I still-”

“If you don’t marry her, I’ll wed her to Tyrion.” His father cut him off. “I would prefer to marry her to my heir, but she is far too valuable a piece for me to leave unsecured and I’ll be damned if I let the Tyrells get their grasping, opportunistic hands on her. This is the neatest solution.”

Jaime’s head was spinning, he tried to anchor himself by focussing on the grain of the wood beneath his fingers, the vaguely metallic smell that always accompanied his father, or the faint clinking of the guardsman’s armour as he shifted position.

But nothing worked.

He could feel himself spiralling further down and knew that he had to stall somehow, that decisions made in this state almost never worked in his favour. He tried to reach deep within himself for the military discipline that he had so prided himself on, but that all felt so distant now.

Perhaps the old Jaime, the one that wasn’t caged like an animal for several turns of the moon, the one that still had use of both hands, the one that was still the greatest swordsman of his generation, perhaps he would have been able to handle the situation with more grace.

As it was, this Jaime, the cripple, the one who had foolishly tied all of his self-worth to his martial prowess, the one who didn’t know what to do now that it was gone, was able to choke out a few words requesting a few days to consider his options.

“Very well. Two days. Then I want to see you back here with an answer.” His father nodded, turning his attention once more to the papers on his desk.

* * *

In the past, when Jaime had needed a non-judgemental ear, he had always been able to turn to Tyrion. Despite his brother’s faults, Tyrion had always been somewhat of a safe harbour to Jaime. While his father was only capable of as much human emotion as a rock, and Cersei was as tempestuous as the seas surrounding her husband’s ancestral home, Tyrion was rarely anything but loving and accepting of the only immediate family member to treat him as a beloved part of said family.

This situation was no exception.

Jaime found Tyrion in his chambers, somewhat preoccupied with one of the castle’s many maids. His brother, seven bless his perception, took one look at Jaime’s face and sent the exotic looking woman on her way, with a promise to make it worth her while later on. While Jaime waited for his brother to get make himself presentable, he paced the narrow space in Tyrion’s solar in an effort to burn off the nervous energy the meeting with his father had left him with. Once dressed, Tyrion seated himself at his desk and patiently listened to Jaime’s summary of his meeting with their father, jumbled and circuitous though it was.

Upon reaching the conclusion of the tale, Tyrion huffed a sigh that would put an aurochs to shame and heaved himself to his feet. The imp of Lannister waddled over to the side table and after grabbing the wine decanter and two goblets, returned to the desk. Perching himself once more upon his seat, Tyrion poured out two exceedingly generous portions. One he slid over to his distressed, still pacing brother, and the other he immediately drained. After Jaime made no move to take the first goblet, Tyrion helped himself to it, again draining it in a single pull.

Tyrion, master of the understatement, then summed up his situation in a single sentence; “sounds like he’s got you up against a wall then.”

When Jaime paused his pacing to fix him with a baleful stare, the younger Lannister spread his hands earnestly. “Honestly Jaime, I’m not really sure what you want me to do. I never really thought the old bastard had anything like this up his sleeve, I had nothing prepared for this situation, at least not this soon. I’ll need some time to think.”

An uncomfortable prickling feeling spread along Jaime’s shoulders, like oil across a hot pan. “Tyrion, I have _two days_. Two days to make this decision. I can’t do anything about my position with the Kingsguard, he’s right and even if he wasn’t Joffrey’s spiteful enough to eventually do it of his own accord the first time I do something to displease him, but the girl? Her fate is in my hands, and I promised her mother I’d see her freed. This is not what she meant.”

Jaime shuddered as he realised that this was to be the first real decision of his life to carry any weight, up until this point he had been swept along by fate and the decisions of others that he was forced to comply with. He joined the Kingsguard on the whim of Aerys, whose madness had eventually left Jaime with no real option other than to kill him, his removal from the Kingsguard was currently being orchestrated by his father, and now he was being asked to be responsible for a decision that would shape the rest of his life, the rest of her life, and the rest of Tyrion’s? His breath came in quicker and quicker pants, what if he made the wrong decision? What would become of Tyrion now that father had his heir back? What if he somehow made the girl more miserable than she would be, were she to remain in King’s Landing?

An odd pressure covered his remaining hand. The uniquely comforting sensation of his brother’s much smaller hands clasping his own drew him back to the present.

“Hey,” Tyrion smiled uncertainly, “everything will work itself out somehow. I’m not sure how yet, but it always does. There is very little you could do to the Lady Sansa that would be worse than what she is currently enduring, and I know you well enough to say _confidently_ that you’d never do any of those things. The worst she has to fear is you accidentally doing or saying something thoughtless and not realising it, not you being actively malicious. As for the Lady Stark, while this situation isn’t ideal, I’m sure she would agree that it’s a damn sight better than her daughter’s current situation. However, the first few meetings with your good-mother will likely be very uncomfortable and we can both be grateful that she will be many leagues away from you when she finds out.”

“But what about you?” Jaime asked, not entirely convinced that taking the Stark girl to wife would magically solve all her problems, but ready to leave the subject behind for later consideration.

“Me?”

“Not only does Father’s scheme remove you from the inheritance of Casterly Rock, but by accepting the Lady Sansa I would also rob you of a wife.” Jaime explained morosely.

Tyrion leaned over to refill the goblets and smiled sadly. “We both know Father was always going to do his best to keep the Rock out of my hands, this way at least I lose it to you and not a cousin. As for the wife? If I’m being completely honest, I could not care less. The Lady Sansa, lovely though she may be, is not the woman I am currently enamoured of. In addition to which, I feel as though I have a few good years of drinking, travelling, and general debauchery left in me before I am ready to settle down with a good and proper wife.”

“If you’re sure.” Jaime said, finally taking a seat opposite his brother and reaching for a drink. He considered the Dornish Red for a moment before deciding against draining the goblet; the sun was still high in the sky and he’d never been as voracious a drinker as his siblings. He took a hesitant sip, if only to give his hand something to do. It was as fine a wine as one was likely to find in his brother’s chambers but the pleasant fruity notes did nothing to soothe his nerves.

“I am.” Tyrion grinned, raising his own goblet in a mock toast. “I do hope I’ve been of some assistance to you, being useless is not a sensation I enjoy.”

“None of us do.” Jaime commiserated, idly waving his prosthetic hand in the air. “And you’re far from useless. As it is you’ve given me much to consider, and you stopped me from becoming too unstrung. Now I just need some time to consider my options.”

Tyrion sighed, running a hand through his unruly curls. “I had hoped to convince you to accompany me to court this afternoon, but it would be understandable if you chose to sequester yourself in your chambers to process everything.”

Jaime frowned, “I thought the King was just receiving petitioners this afternoon, has something changed?”

“Yes, I spoke with Lady Sansa’s handmaiden earlier, and she revealed to me that the King has ordered the Lady to present herself before the Iron Throne after the last petitioner.”

“For what reason?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tyrion said quietly, his eyes flat and face set, “Whatever the pretext, it always means pain and humiliation.”

Jaime sighed, squashing the urge to wail and destroy as Cersei was prone to, to sullenly scheme a way out of this as Tyrion might, to bury his feelings under drills and sparring as Old Jaime could have, or to flatly refuse to attend as his Father would, anything to buy himself a few hours of precious solitude. He agreed, though his reluctance was not lost on his younger brother, and silently resigned himself to a dull afternoon of the peasantry listing their myriad problems followed by whatever the King had in store for the unfortunate Sansa Stark.

* * *

Jaime blinked as Ser Meryn’s blade landed across the Stark girl’s shoulders with a resounding crack.

When he reopened his eyes, he saw the shadow of his cage bars obscure his vision of the Great Hall and felt a tight band across his windpipe and thick, itchy mud caking his skin. He shook himself in an attempt to dispel the apparition and though his vision cleared up and he could breathe easier, the itch and the smell of mud and shit seemed to linger in his nostrils.

“What’s Father doing here?” Tyrion questioned with a frown, sounding to Jaime as though he was a thousand leagues away. “This never happens when the Old Lion deigns to attend court, why hasn’t he put a stop to this?”

With great effort, Jaime dragged his eyes away from the Lady Sansa’s battered back, red bleeding through the dark purple of her brocade, and to the impassive man standing by the side of the Iron Throne. Father’s face was set in his court mask, though Jaime observed the uncharacteristic tightness around his eyes, coolly observing the brutalisation of a young woman, whose only crime was to be related to a man who had experienced unexpected success in his quest to avenge the death of his father.

Cersei was also present, resting a well-manicured hand upon the shoulder of the King and twining a lock of golden hair around a finger as she steadfastly ignored the scene below in favour of gazing after the distant figure of Osmund Kettleblack, who lounged at ease in his position by the great doors.

The rest of the court was as silent as the grave, holding themselves stiffly at attention so that not even the soft whisper of fabric against stone distracted from the pained grunts that the lady let escape with every swing of Trant’s blade.

Not one in the milling crowd spoke up against the King’s punishment.

Not one let even a flicker of discontent cross their face.

Not one was willing to speak up for the daughter of the honourable Eddard Stark.

Not one was willing to risk the displeasure of the King to save this slip of a girl.

 _Not_ _one_ , save for his foolish, brave younger brother.

Feeling oddly disconnected from the situation, Jaime floated along in Tyrion’s wake. If he were asked later, Jaime could not have recalled the words his brother used, nor the King’s hissed response. He only remembered the white-knuckled grip of Cersei’s hand on Joffrey’s shoulder, the way that the King’s puce flush contrasted his wildfire green eyes, the urge to shred the flesh from his own arms if only it would rid him of the damned itch, the way Tyrion stood as tall as he ever had, and the inherent challenge in the set of his father’s brows.

Without making a conscious decision, Jaime found himself between Trant and the Lady Sansa. He shot the Kingsguard knight a quelling look when it looked like he might protest, and wasn’t that a travesty? An up-jumped, self-righteous, child-beating piece of _scum_ of no great skill, save his complete willingness to follow any order, no matter how vile, appointed to the sacred brotherhood of the Kingsguard.

Once appointment to the Kingsguard had meant something, a brotherhood of seven of the greatest warriors from across the Seven Kingdoms. A covenant, sworn to live and die in service of the highest power in Westeros, and this was what it was reduced to.

Sub-par warriors chosen not for their skill, but for their loyalties. A White-cloak beating the innocent and defenceless bloody in front of an unprotesting audience.

He would not stand for it, he could not stand for it and so, uncaring of the scene unfolding behind him, he bent down to the Lady Sansa’s level and favoured her with an uncertain, but hopefully reassuring, smile.

The young woman’s eyes had a worryingly dead sheen to them, but after a moment the icy blue sharpened back into awareness as she took stock of her current situation.

“Lady Sansa,” he said softly, his words for her ears alone but carrying in the otherwise silent chamber, “I do hope you will do me the honour of allowing me to escort you back to your chambers?”

When she spoke, her voice was equally as soft, fanning-out sweetly throughout the hall and bore not a hint of the pain she must be experiencing. “Ser Jaime, it is you that does me a great honour by your request. I should be grateful to enjoy a walk on the arm of a handsome knight.”

“Ah, but my lady,” he re-joined with a rakish grin, “there is no greater pleasure than that of escorting a beautiful young lady.”

“Uncle!” Joffrey’s high and reedy voice intruded on the moment. “Surely if you wanted a beautiful woman on your arm, even a cripple like you could do better than the disgraced daughter of a traitor? Why her beauty pales in comparison to that of my future queen, the Lady Margaery, or even that of the ladies of the Court. Perhaps the lovely Lady Lollys would suit you better than that mongrel?”

“Well your Grace,” Jaime drawled, taking pains to exaggerate his once-over of the unfortunate lady before turning his gaze on Joffrey, “they do say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

Joffrey flushed a truly alarming shade of maroon and shot to his feet, shrugging off his mother’s restraining hand as he made to descend the throne.

“I believe that’s all our business for today.” Tywin’s authoritarian voice shattered the ugly silence. “The King is a very busy man and has to be elsewhere. Court will resume on the morrow, two bells before noon.”

Joffrey’s jaw clenched and it looked for a moment like he might overrule his grandfather, before the King’s betrothed stepped up to the throne and beseeched her love for a turn around the rose gardens. Joffrey smiled charmingly at the young lady, anger seemingly forgotten, and descended the Iron Throne to take her outstretched hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm. The young couple elegantly strolled out of the throne room, shortly followed by a crowd of courtiers eager to disperse. Leaving the downed wolf in their wake without so much as a backwards glance. Spineless sycophants to a man.

Jaime turned once more to the Lady Sansa and extended to her his good hand, which the lady demurely ignored in favour of planting her hands on the cold marble floor and heaving herself to her feet. The movement might have been graceful, were it not from the evident stiffness of her limbs and the slight stumble as the lady straightened to her full height. Jaime could not help but be in awe of the lady’s poise, this mere slip of a woman had endured more pain and humiliation than any noblewoman should outside of the birthing chambers, and yet here she stood. Not a hint of discomfort in her expression, nor fear in her countenance. She regarded him impassively, the spectre of Ned Stark’s lord’s face playing across her features, and he realised belatedly that she was waiting for him to offer her his arm. He hurriedly did so, spitefully ignoring Tyrion’s braying laugh behind them.

The walk to the lady’s chambers was uneventful, the conversation was light but pleasant, with Lady Sansa skilfully skirting around contentious topics and Jaime happy to let sleeping dogs lie.

Once at the door, Jaime turned Lady Sansa over into the care of the same maid he had seen in his brother’s chambers earlier. Inside the chamber, he saw a bathtub already prepared for the girl, fresh linens on the table, and various pots of ointments all stamped with the Tyrell rose. Though the steam from the bath carried the scent of various medicinal herbs, it did little to assuage his concern for the lady, but it was not his place to demand better treatment for her.

Not _yet._

The maid must have seen his indecision, but apparently, she cared little. She narrowed her dark eyes and thanked Jaime curtly, before bobbing a clumsy curtsey and shutting the weirwood door quite firmly in his face. Jaime blinked, taken aback, and, if he was being honest with himself, somewhat amused. Tyrion had always been weak for a fiery woman.

He regarded the pale door for a beat longer before turning and striding determinedly in the direction of the Hand’s chambers. As he walked, he questioned himself, wondering if, despite everything, this was the wrong decision. When he came to the conclusion that it was the only solution, his internal monologue devolved into an interrupted string of curse-words that persisted until he reached his father’s chambers.

He burst into the room, not having the presence of mind to knock. Tywin was again perusing documents at his desk, paused halfway through the act of raising a goblet to his lips.

“I’ll do it.”

“You’ll do what?” Tywin queried, lowering his goblet to the table. “Jaime, do you know what happened to the lion on the side table?”

“What?” Jaime asked, caught wrongfooted. “Oh, yes. Here.” He extracted the limb from his belt pouch and offered it to his father.

Tywin took it, turning it over in his fingers as he examined it for an overlong moment. The silence stretched on as Tywin continued to ignore his son in favour of studying the golden paw. When the Lord Hand judged that he had let his son stew long enough, he returned his attention to Jaime.

“You’ll do what?” He prompted, an odd look in his green eyes.

“Everything,” Jaime said, “Anything.”

As Tywin’s fingers closed around the disembodied appendage, caging it within his grasp, a smug, shark-like grin spread slowly across his face.

“Excellent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, welcome to the story!
> 
> To all those who subbed in my anime phase five years ago: hello again, hopefully you enjoy this new direction!
> 
> Look I'm not sure how I ended up in this ship, I read a version of this scenario out of curiosity and here I am several months later having read the vast majority of fics several times over. So this fic is born out of having nothing to read, and my evenweave fabric order taking a truly ridiculous amount of time to arrive. 
> 
> This is a bit of a new area for me so there may be some stylistic growing pains, please let me know if there's anything particularly jarring or if you have some constructive criticism or advice to offer. 
> 
> I will try to update every week or so, not sure yet how long the piece will be but it won't be massive, probably around 10 chapters. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I have enjoyed coming up with the story and all its little twists and turns.
> 
> Next time we hear from Sansa, until then!


	2. Sansa 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Both my son, Lord Tyrion, and the Master of Whispers seem to believe that you are not quite as empty-headed as you would have the rest of the court believe. From what I have observed of you over the last sennight, I am inclined to agree with them. So, I will give you this warning. Whatever behaviours and courtesies you have used to protect yourself from the King and the court, they will not work on me. I am a man who has little patience and less time, I value forthrightness and the truth. Be honest and do not be afraid to speak your mind, you shall suffer no reprisals from me.”

Sansa brushed her hands down the front of her bodice nervously, wincing as her abused flesh protested and scabs caught on the taut fabric of her dress. She had been summoned by the Lord Hand and had not been given an explanation for this audience. Her request for further information had been answered with a cold look and a curt order to make herself available to meet with Lord Tywin in his public chambers by the noon bell. Since his arrival in the city, the Hand had not deigned to acknowledge her presence and now she was summoned for a private audience?

Sansa did not think it boded well for her and judging by the uncharacteristically gentle treatment Shae had given her this morning, the lady’s maid did not think so either.

Still, there was nothing to be done. So, Sansa had dutifully garbed her protesting body in the finest dress she had available. A remnant from her former life, though it was now too small and the edges were frayed. It pinched at her waist as she breathed, and yet she drew strength from it.

From the soft dove grey that was as close to the Stark grey as she could get without making a political statement.

From the fabric that had worn soft over the years, the swirling patterns in the brocade now as familiar to her as the freckles on her own skin.

Most of all from the wolf with the golden eyes that she had embroidered on the inside of her trumpet sleeve. Hidden from the prying eyes of the court but positioned so that she could run her fingers across the embroidered fur throughout the day. A futile act of rebellion following the execution of her father, when she could hardly breathe through the tears that would not stop falling from her eyes, when she had still held hope that a rescue was coming for her.

Now it served as a reminder.

A reminder of better times, a reminder of the heritage that Joffrey could not beat out of her, a reminder to be brave. As brave as her brothers and sister and Mother and Father and Lady.

Sansa took a deep breath, folded her hands across her stomach to disguise the shaking, and carefully assumed her court mask. Tucking all emotions away deep inside, hiding her fear behind a cool façade of placidity.

It was a trick she had learnt well.

It was a necessity here in the Capitol, where any hint of emotion could be used against you by those determined to curry power at any cost, any spark of defiance would be met by mailed fists and the flat of the Kingsguard’s blades.

The Court had taught her many valuable lessons, though the price had been far too steep, and her many tutors had had conflicting opinions. Cersei, for example, had taught her to be a pretty little ornament on the arm of the King, how to cover her bruises with powder and cover her pain with smiles and courtesies. Lord Baelish, a girlhood friend of her mother, who had taken her under his wing in the absence of her family, had taught her to observe everything. To see plots and examine the motivations behind seemingly innocuous acts. In Winterfell, she’d never had reason to second guess anyone, save for her siblings and Theon, who were prone to playing tricks on her.

Now, it felt like all she did.

Joffrey had best taught her this particular lesson, though it seemed like every Lannister had taken it upon themselves to reinforce it.

The malignant monster hiding behind the gallant prince.

The stunning queen’s casual cruelty.

The Imp of Lannister’s empty promises.

And now it seemed the Young Lion was queueing up for his turn.

Until this point the Lord Hand had been Sansa’s favourite Lannister, if only because he seemed completely unaware of her presence. Not acknowledging her in public, nor making her life easier or harder, content to just ignore her.

He had ordered her to appear before the noon bell, but it was now almost half an hour after that. Which meant either that his last meeting had dragged on or that he was trying to send her a message

‘ _What’s the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do?_ ’(1) Sansa heard Lord Baelish’s sibilant voice in her head, as clearly as if he was leaning over her shoulder to whisper intimately into her ear.

As Tywin Lannister did not seem the sort of man to suffer fools gladly, he was probably trying to send a message. So what, Sansa pondered, was he trying to communicate?

It could simply be designed to unsettle her, to let her stew until he was ready to speak to her. Or it could be to put her in her place, by reminding her just how little her time was worth compared to him.

Considering all the years she had passed as a prisoner of the Lannisters and the degradations she had suffered as a result, Sansa thought it far more likely to be the former. The latter would be redundant.

Another lesson from Lord Baelish; there is no reason to play mind games against an opponent when simply remaining silent could cause them to unravel like embroidery floss dropped accidentally.

Unfortunately for Tywin, by now, Sansa was an old hand at this game.

So she waited, hands still folded across her stomach, ankles crossed and tucked beneath the bench, posture impeccable, and face serene.

There was little of interest in the hallway to study. Two Lannister guards with closed helms flanked the doors to the Hand’s chambers, two more of their comrades guarded the far entrance to the hall, each man as still as a statue. On the walls red flags and golden ornaments covered Arryn blue walls, the gaudy lions competed with the white falcons soaring across the architraves. In the years since Jon Arryn’s death, none of the Hands had remained long enough to redecorate.

Father certainly wouldn’t have considered it a priority.

In the centre of the hallway hung a large tapestry depicting what Sansa could only assume was the Eyrie, which Tywin had apparently not seen fit to remove.

The door to the Hand’s chamber swung open with such force that it bounced off the wall with a resounding crack, interrupting Sansa’s musings. Completely at odds with such violent action, Queen Cersei glided out of the room. Though her eyes were bright, and her mouth was pinched, when Cersei spoke her voice carried only the slightest hint of strain.

“Little Bird.” She all but purred, “What a _pleasure_ to see you here.”

“Your Grace.” Sansa replied, rising from the bench only to sink once more into as graceful a curtsey as she could manage.

Cersei’s grin sharpened and she opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by Tyrion emerging from the room behind her. “Lady Sansa!” He exclaimed with a wide grin. “How wonderful to see you under better circumstances!”

“Lord Tyrion.” Sansa said graciously, grateful that protocol dictated she need only nod acknowledgement.

He frowned slightly as he realised that she did not return his pleasure at their meeting, but forged on gamely nevertheless. “The Lord Hand begs your pardon for the delay, we have been discussing a matter of great importance and got caught up in the minutia. As it is now past the noon bell, he requests the pleasure of your company for a light luncheon in the courtyard, if that is amenable to you?”

It was polite of Tyrion to frame the order as a request, but everyone present was aware that there was no real choice to be made here. So Sansa inclined her head slightly and murmured her acquiescence. “I serve at the Hand’s pleasure.”

“As do we all, Little Bird.” Cersei’s lips were drawn tight, baring her gleaming white teeth in what might, on a lesser woman, be considered a snarl. “As do we all.”

The Queen regarded Sansa for a long, uncomfortable moment, eyes catching on the fraying ends of her sleeves and making Sansa uncomfortably aware of how close she was skirting to indecency in this last remnant of home. The Queen’s eyes darkened, her face emptied of even her characteristic disdain, and somehow Sansa knew that she had been found wanting. Without another word, Cersei Lannister turned and swept down the hallway, red skirts and golden hair billowing in her wake.

When Sansa turned to the remaining Lannister she was surprised at just how tired he looked. Tyrion sighed, running a hand through his hair as he watched his sister disappear. Returning his attention to her the dwarf offered Sansa a crooked smile. “Father has one more matter to attend to before your luncheon, but Jaime will be out to escort you momentarily.”

With his piece said, Tyrion nodded once and followed his sister out of the Hand’s tower without waiting for a response from her. Not, Sansa thought wryly, that one was necessary. Displeasing the Hand was to invite further misery into her life.

Tyrion was scarcely out the door before his brother emerged from the Hand’s chambers.

“Lady Sansa!” He exclaimed, with forced good cheer, “a pleasure to see you once more!”

“Ser Jaime,” Sansa replied, ducking her head to him.

He offered his arm to her in an unnecessarily showy movement. The Old Sansa would have swooned at a handsome knight showing her such gallantry, this Sansa just pressed her lips into the expected smile and daintily took his arm. Jaime seemed slightly put out by her lack of reaction but rallied to smile at her charmingly.

“My father informs me that lunch will be served on the next bell, so we have time for a short stroll around the colonnades if you are amenable?”

“My Lord, I can think of nothing that I would enjoy more.” Sansa said, though she was aware of several things she would prefer to be doing.

Jaime’s smile widened, and though his expression was free of Cersei’s familiar edge of malice, he resembled nothing so much as his twin in victory. As they proceeded down the hallway the knight began to chatter in her ear. Sansa only half-listened as he spoke, electing instead to study this new Lannister.

She remembered his arrival in Winterfell, a golden knight sitting proudly on his fine white stallion. A beast which put even King Robert’s to shame, still full of fire after its long journey North while the King’s swallowed great gulps of air like it was water, exhausted by the trek. The fine lines and elegant muscle of the stallion at stark contrast with the bulk of the King’s horse, which had more in common with a beast of burden than a warrior’s destrier. The knight himself had moved with a leonine grace, a confidence that only came with the knowledge that should he be pitted against any other warrior in the castle grounds, he would emerge victorious. The Kingslayer had shared all of his sister’s famed beauty and had seemingly embodied all of Sansa’s wildest fantasies about the beauty and splendour of King’s Landing.

The Jaime Lannister who now held her arm bore little resemblance to that men.

This man was prematurely aged. He had only seen 36 name-days but looked to be in the midst of his fortieth decade. The once golden mane now cropped short and threaded with silver. Though his body was still fit, he had an abject gauntness to him, a hollowness that seemed to transcend the physical. This man, for whom pride and condescension were once a bone-deep aspect of his character, now seemed almost vulnerable.

That was the crux of it, Sansa thought, his purpose was stolen from him along with his sword hand. There was a hesitance hiding behind the thin veneer of who he used to be, an aimlessness he tried to disguise behind quips and feigned confidence.

Sansa almost felt sympathy for him, a kindred spirit brought low by captivity and suffering.

Almost.

Were he not a Lannister, and were she not a Stark.

Had their families not torn each other to shreds, plunged the realm into war.

Perhaps it could have been otherwise.

But it was not.

* * *

Tywin had still not appeared by the time they had finished their turn around the colonnades. Jaime was persistent in maintaining their rather one-sided conversation, apparently unbothered by her reticence, as Sansa observed the great oak at the centre of the courtyard. The tree was caught in the flux between summer and winter, when all life braced itself to survive the cold years ahead. When Sansa had resided in the Hand’s tower with her sister and father, surrounded by those they trusted, the leaves had been a vivid green.

Now they were Lannister red.

With bleached bark and red foliage, the tree could almost be mistaken for a weirwood To Sansa, however, it was naught but a pale imitation.

“-puts me in mind of the weirwood in the Rock’s godswood. A great example of arboreal tenacity if ever there-” Jaime’s voice intruded on Sansa’s reflection.

“There’s a heart tree in Casterly Rock?” Sansa interrupted, unable to help herself.

Jaime paused, taken aback as if he had not expected her to interrupt his monologue, before grinning, pleased to have finally sparked her interest. “Oh yes, of course it’s not in a godswood as such, not like the one in Winterfell, we call it the Stone Garden.”

“The Stone Garden?” Sansa echoed, intrigued.

“There is a cave deep within the rock where the weirwood grows,” Jaime lit up as he spoke about his home, “over the centuries it has pushed out all the other plant-life until it lined the cavern. It’s a gnarled, twisted thing that takes up almost the entire chamber.”

“Does anyone visit it?”

“The West converted to the Faith like most other kingdoms, but it remains a place of quiet reflection for us and many of the servants. And,” he said with a surprisingly impish grin, “it is a most excellent spot to hide from feuding siblings.”

“And from displeased fathers and tutors.” Tywin’s commanding voice boomed across the courtyard, shattering the tranquillity of the afternoon.

As one, the couple turned to face the Lord Hand before disengaging to greet him. Jaime bowed in deference to his father, muttering a wooden greeting. Sansa acknowledged him with a polite “My Lord Hand,” but as she sunk into a low curtsey a spasm from her screaming back sent her pitching to the left. Jaime stepped in to catch her, so quickly and smoothly she barely had time to register falling before she was in his arms.

Supporting her with his flesh hand on her waist and golden hand under her left arm, the Kingslayer was able to right her and hold her steady as Sansa rode out the waves of pain emanating from her abused flesh.

With humiliation dusting her cheeks Sansa raised her eyes once more to the Hand of the King’s and to her surprise found something close to sympathy lurking in the green depths.

“My dear Lady Sansa, had I known you were suffering so greatly I would have rescheduled.”

“You were not to know,” Sansa demurred, despite knowing full well that Tywin had been present in the Great Hall yesterday during her torment, “I should have sent word.”

“You are most gracious Lady Sansa. Now,” He said, sweeping an expansive hand behind himself, “I have brought lunch. Shall we eat before moving on to business?”

Not waiting for a response, the Hand clicked his fingers and a line of servants proceeded into the courtyard. The men carried in a square dining table and three chairs, before returning inside for the food. As the nobles watched, the maids set the table with cream linens and golden cutlery, porcelain plates with gilded designs and blown glass goblets set on golden stems. Cloth of gold pillows were placed on each seat and, at Jaime’s request, a fourth one was produced and placed against the back of the chair that was to be hers. With their work done, the maids dispersed, following the menfolk to the kitchen to aid in serving.

Jaime helped Sansa to her seat, before seating himself opposite her. As she reclined back into the plush pillow, Sansa could not help but feel grateful to a Lannister. She favoured him with a small smile, amused despite herself at the way his eyes widened, and cheeks darkened in response. He gave her a jerky nod in acknowledgment before turning his attention to his as yet empty plate. Tywin had meanwhile seated himself at the head of the table and signalled to the servants once more. Again, they streamed into the courtyard, this time bearing fragrant plates of cold roast chicken, boiled new potatoes, a green salad strewn liberally with pomegranate sarcotestas, and a large pile of lemon cakes.

“My daughter informs me that lemon cakes are a particular favourite of yours.” Tywin explained as a maid filled their goblets with a rich red liquid.

“They are,” Sansa said, realising that this luncheon was not as coincidental as Tywin had made it seem, “my Lord Hand is very kind to have arranged this.”

“It was nothing. Now, as my son and I are not ones for drinking before the day’s work is done, I have requested that we instead be served with juice. However, if this is not to your liking, I would be more than happy to send for some wine?”

“Thank you, my Lord, juice will be acceptable. Truthfully, I’ve never much been one for drinking outside of feasts.”

Tywin nodded in approval, “I’ve always believed that an over fondness for such drinks reflects a weakness of character that I simply cannot abide.”

“Or,” interjected Jaime, “indicative of a deep desire to escape all of the horrors one has endured, even if only for an hour or so.”

“Indeed.” Tywin pursed his lips, his expression making it clear that he considered these two motivations to be one and the same but was unwilling to invite further discussion. “Well, we might as well begin our meal.”

Lunch was not an altogether unpleasant affair. The food was excellent, the chicken was perfectly seasoned, and the potatoes were slathered in herb butter. The conversation was light and inconsequential, with Sansa able to avoid uncertain grounds without much effort.

Sansa had saved the salad for last. It was a rare treat for her to enjoy, as she was most often fed the rich, heavy food favoured by the Royal Family. The salad was crisp and delicious, the pomegranate bursting delightfully in her mouth, a welcome refresher between the main course and dessert.

Once all had finished eating, Tywin clicked his fingers once more and servants sprung forth from their positions around the courtyard to remove the dirty dishes and replace them with clean plates and cutlery for the dessert course. Tywin himself served the lemon cakes, placing one onto the centre of each plate with a ridiculous golden pair of tongs. Off to the side, Jaime poked unenthusiastically at his cake before lifting it off the plate with his hand and taking a large bite. At his father’s unimpressed look the man merely shrugged and explained that he ‘hadn’t yet figured out the finer points of cutlery manipulation’ while waving his gold prosthesis in the air. Sansa pressed her lips together to contain an indelicate snort, she had never met a man that spoke quite like Jaime Lannister, a man seemingly unaware of the inherent ridiculousness of his own words. Noticing her amusement Jaime winked at her across the table.

Thankfully by the time Tywin’s eyes fell upon her, Sansa had managed to school her face back into blankness. To avoid the Old Lion’s piercing gaze Sansa busied herself by cutting a delicate slice of her cake and raising it to her mouth. As the sweet lemon taste exploded across her tongue, Sansa allowed herself an only half-feigned smile of delight.

“It’s delicious.” She complimented, and it was, but it wasn’t Gage’s.

“I’m glad,” Tywin said, smiling like he had forgotten how to smile years ago.

Once their plates were scraped clean and removed, Tywin dropped his air of affability and straightened in his chair, becoming once more the imposing King’s Hand. The man considered her impassively before deigning to speak, and when he did it was nothing she had anticipated.

“Both my son, Lord Tyrion, and the Master of Whispers seem to believe that you are not quite as empty-headed as you would have the rest of the court believe. From what I have observed of you over the last sennight, I am inclined to agree with them. So, I will give you this warning. Whatever behaviours and courtesies you have used to protect yourself from the King and the court, they will not work on me. I am a man who has little patience and less time, I value forthrightness and the truth. Be honest and do not be afraid to speak your mind, you shall suffer no reprisals from me.”

Sansa’s spine stiffened automatically at the iron in his tone, but she had been tricked before, so she remained silent, staring at him, waiting for the next move.

“I was foolish to trust in the written words of my daughter and the King, you are a survivor, I see that now. You are a wolf, not brash like your brother or uncle, but quiet like your father, waiting to make your move. A quiet wolf, but no less a wolf. So I come to you with a proposition, one that will be your salvation if you are wise enough to take it.”

A Lannister offering her salvation? The last time she’d run to a Lannister for help it had led to her father’s head on a spike and her brother being declared a traitor. Sansa made no effort to hide her scepticism, curious how Tywin would handle this small scrap of resistance.

The Hand swept his hand to the side, drawing her attention to Jaime. “Agree to wed my son Lady Sansa, and Joffrey will never be able to lay a hand on you again. Become Lady Lannister and you shall rise to be one of the most powerful women in Westeros. You will want for nothing.”

“And what do you get out of this?” Sansa demanded, bitterness leaching into her tone, “Why now?

“I get a highborn wife for my son. A woman whose pedigree is unquestionable and upbringing beyond reproach. You have been trained for your whole life to be the Lady of a great house. There is not a more eligible match in all Seven Kingdoms, not even our future queen.” Tywin’s teeth gleamed in the afternoon sun, “It is my personal belief that you will be a great asset to our house and that is why I have decided to pursue a betrothal between you and my son. As for the timing? The King has consented to release Jaime from his vows and with his return from the Front, the timing is right. I am a man who likes to strike when the iron is hot, I do not like to wait if it is not necessary.”

“And,” Sansa said, the realisation having crept up on her as the Hand spoke, “You want my claim to the North.”

Tywin spread his hands in supplication and opened his mouth to deliver yet more honeyed words, but Sansa cut him off, unable to stop as the horrific extent of Tywin’s plan crystallised in her mind. “But my claim means nothing to you, so long as Robb is still fighting. Which means you have a planned end to the conflict, one you are certain will succeed, so much so that you are planning for the aftermath. You mean to seat a Lannister in Winterfell, you mean to make my son Warden of the North under your thumb.” Sansa laughed, a high brittle thing, “but it won’t work. The North will _never_ bow to a Lannister, not even one whose mother was a Stark.”

“You underestimate the loyalty of the North.”

“You overestimate it,” Sansa retorted with an edge of mania, “how many of my brother’s men have abandoned him since he wed that woman and broke his vows to the Freys? How many still leave? Slowly trickling back to the North without regard for their vows.”

“They will kneel.” Tywin said, without the barest flicker of emotion, “or their legs will be cut out from under them by the Lannister army.”

“It won’t work,” Sansa warned him, “even the Targaryens needed dragons to bring the North to heel.”

“It will.” Tywin declared with icy certainty, “how could it fail with Ned Stark’s daughter on our side?”

“and if I refuse?”

“You will be given to Joffrey to do with as he pleases for the rest of your undoubtedly wretched existence. We’ll have to fake your death for the court and your family, we can’t have anyone charging in to rescue you. Of course, you’ve been with us for three years now and your brother has yet to attempt a single rescue, or even arrange a trade. Perhaps we needn’t bother with such a ruse at all. Your brother, it seems, does not care enough to secure your release, and your mother has already played her hand. We Lannisters would never let that happen to one of our own, we protect each other. When I knew him, your father was fond of a Northern saying; ‘ _the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_ ’(2). Your pack has abandoned you Lady Sansa, why not join a pride instead?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Got this out a bit quicker than expected, and what was going to be 1 chapter has now been split into 3. It was going to be 2 but then thought that that was an absolute banger of a line to end on.
> 
> I have absolutely loved reading all the reviews and people's perspectives, It's been very trippy reading reviews from people with familiar names!
> 
> House Keeping:
> 
> I have added the unreliable narrator tag, so please bear that in mind going forwards!
> 
> I'm not sure if blown glass is a thing in Westeros, there are glass gardens but that could be sheet or mould set rather than blown, cut, and straightened. I'm just gonna work on the assumption they do as the Romans had it by the 1st c BCE. (Classics degree coming in clutch!)
> 
> Tywin probably seems a little bipolar atm but I promise that there is a reason, I will probably release a short one-shot from his POV before the next chapter so you cant all get some insight into his motivations.
> 
> I've gone a bit wild with the power of not having to conform to a word-limit, please let me know if it drags on too much and I'll try to reign myself in :)
> 
> Next time Jaime deals with the aftermath!
> 
> See you then!
> 
> (1) Game of Thrones S07E07  
> (2) As Above (and so many other times)


	3. Jaime 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been at war, he wanted to scream, I cut a bloody path to Robb Stark and I paid for it in the moons I was kept like a beast in that cage. I paid for it with the rest of my youth, with the gold in my hair, the skill in my bones, and my last scrap of honour. And I did all of it, all of it, for the family. And what was my reward for it? When I finally dragged myself to King’s Landing, missing a hand and my life’s purpose, covered in mud and lice, with monsters in my soul, and a bone-deep exhaustion that has never truly left?

Jaime sat, forgotten in the wake of his father’s ultimatum, watched as the Lord Hand crushed the Lady Sansa beneath his heel without so much as a flicker of emotion. The lady herself was similarly emotionless, frozen but snow-white beneath her freckles. His father seemed content to let the silence grow and stretch into an oppressive weight, reclining into his chair, secure in victory. The Lady Sansa remained statue still save for her eyes, which darted around the courtyard, seeking any means of escape.

Jaime realised to his horror that she was actually weighing up a life of torture and rape under Joffrey and a life at his side as the lady of Casterly Rock. Jaime knew that he was not a good man, that he’d fought against both her father and her brother, but surely he was a better choice than the King, the perfect embodiment of Robert and Cersei’s worst flaws?

Jaime noticed her hands tremble, clenched as they were on the linen, and could be still no longer. He surged to his feet, checking himself as he noticed her flinch, and walked around the table to kneel at her side. He carefully lifted her hands from the tabletop and placed them in his own, balancing them on top of the golden hand and covering them with the flesh. Her hands were cold but wonderfully soft, and he admired for a moment the contrast between his warm golden tan and her speckled creamy colouration. Jaime waited patiently for her breathing to slow and eyes to focus on him, ignoring the growing ache in his knees.

Gods this would have been so much easier a decade earlier, Jaime mused. Now, a few moments in a crouch sent pains shooting up his legs. Alas time leaves its mark on us all.

The young lady’s hands twitched in his, drawing him out of his reverie. Her breathing had evened out, and though she was still pale, she seemed at least to be more conscious of her surroundings.

“Lady Sansa,” he began, hoping his knees would hold out just a few moments longer, “I know that I am not the husband you would have wished for, that our families have been in conflict with one another for years, and that in that time you have suffered far greater torture than anyone of your age should have at the hands of my sister and her son. You have survived treatment that would have broken a lesser soul, and you have not allowed it to diminish your kindness or your courage.

“I owe your mother my freedom, and a Lannister always pays his debts. Please, allow me to repay your mother by removing you from your own captivity. If you will have me, I would swear to you my sword and my life, such as they are. I will never bring dishonour upon you and I will protect you with my life.

“I am not so great a fool as to suppose that it is within my power to bring you a life free from suffering, as that is for the Gods to decide, but should you accept my hand I shall do my utmost to bring you happiness where I may and to protect you from any that would do you harm. I swear this before the Old Gods and the New.”

His piece said, Jaime fell into silence as he waited for the lady’s response. Her gaze had softened slightly as he spoke, making her look younger still, but it had hardened again as she withdrew behind her courtly mask. His father meanwhile had a calculating look upon his face, a slight furrow to his brow and gleam in his emerald eyes, as he parsed Jaime’s words for hidden meanings. There was also, Jaime fancied, a worrying air of approval, as if Jaime had made an unexpected but excellent move in one of the strategy games his father favoured.

When he returned his attention to Lady Sansa, he was surprised to see that she was studying him quite intently. He was suddenly over-aware of the now loose fit of his clothing, the silver streaking through his golden hair, and the nagging ache in his legs.

How awful, he thought, that this bright young woman, by all accounts one of the most beautiful women in the realm, should be forced to marry a crippled swordsman near twice her age. A woman raised to be queen asked to shackle herself to him.

How awful, that this should be the better of her options.

How awful, he thought, and then emerald green caught on ocean blue and he was set adrift.

“I’ll do it,” Lady Sansa murmured, eyes and hands never leaving his, “I’ll consent to the betrothal.”

“Excellent,” his father said, a note of victory in his voice, “now we can begin the negotiations.”

Lady Sansa whirled to face his father. “Negotiations?”

Jaime blinked, the spell broken, as he was once again left by the wayside as his father treated with his betrothed. He heaved himself to his feet, trying not to wince as his muscles protested.

“Yes, negotiations. You are the daughter of a great house, marrying the son of a great house. There are things that I want, and no doubt things that you want, and I would prefer to resolve the matter as cordially as possible. We are to be family after all, and arrangements like these tend to work out best when everybody is satisfied.” Jaime hid a snort as he rounded the table back to his seat. Cordiality hadn’t been a huge concern when his father had been threatening the young woman across the table. “I realise that this is not a normal situation, where your head of family would argue on your behalf, but I am fully confident in your ability to speak for yourself. You may make the first request, if you wish.”

Lady Sansa nodded, brushing imaginary crumbs off her skirts as she formulated her response. While he waited, Jaime’s father motioned to a servant standing in the shade of the colonnade. The young man brought over a heavy iron oak writing box, a golden nibbed quill, and a bottle of ink. The Lord Hand lifted the inclined lid and produced from within a half-finished betrothal contract, the same one he had been working on during his earlier meeting with Jaime and his siblings. He secured the parchment to the board with golden clips, wet his quill, and turned his attention to Lady Sansa.

“I would like to keep my family name.” She began hesitantly.

It was not a bad opening gambit, a nice way to sound out her opponent, but it was a bit of a risk. A request like this would have angered Joffrey and merited punishment, but his father had promised Lady Sansa tolerance, this would test the truth of those words. His father’s expression did not change as he digested her request, he merely leaned onto his elbows and steepled his fingers.

“Explain your reasoning.” The Lord Hand ordered, staring intently at her.

Lady Sansa licked her lips nervously but did not break eye contact with his father. “As you said my Lord, I am the daughter of a great house marrying the son of a great house. There is a precedent for a woman to keep her family name when marrying into a house of equal or lesser status. Your own daughter, and the late princess Elia Martell, both kept their family names after marriage. Secondly, the North will never bow to a man with the name Lannister. Not even one with a Stark mother. I can pass my name on to my second son, this will be the first step in gaining the acceptance of the Northern Lords.”

Tywin nodded, “well-reasoned Lady Sansa. If you have no objections you shall be styled as the Lady Sansa Stark, of House Lannister.”

“That is agreeable.”

“Now I believe that leads us to the subject of children. Your mother and father were most …prolific. I assume that there is no sign that you yourself would be unable to bear a child to term?”

“I-” the Lady Sansa flushed a deep red, “no, there is n- no reason to believe otherwise.”

“Excellent,” Tywin continued, heedless of the discomfort he was causing her, “we will need at least two sons. Two heirs and a spare would be most desirable. Daughters too, for strengthening alliances.”

Jaime clenched his fist, nails digging into soft flesh, as his father planned futures for his children. Lordships for sons and matches for daughters that weren’t even born yet. Children that were as yet only ideas, a desperate dream so long out of reach now finally within his grasp, only to become pawns in his father’s plans.

“We will need your word, Father, that you will not unilaterally make decisions about our children’s futures, that you will listen to our counsel, and take their wishes into account.” Tywin’s lips pursed, as though he had bitten into something unexpectedly sour, but he assented to Jaime’s request and entered it into the contract.

“There will be no bedding.”

“My dear, you must consummate-”

“I mean that there will be no bedding ceremony.” Sansa interrupted, “I am fully prepared to do my duty, but I will not suffer the indignity of the bedding.”

“It is tradition.”

“I care not for tradition.” Sansa said firmly, eyes fixed on Tywin’s. “I have been stripped of my clothing before the court, the men of King’s Landing have seen their fill of my body. They will not see it again. Furthermore, I do not trust the King or his men to abide by honour. I still remember the feeling of the cold air on my back and hard stone beneath my knees as Ser Boros grasped at my breast with mail covered fingers and Ser Meryn cupped my behind. I remember the way the King laughed at my humiliation and encouraged further abuse. I remember the silence of the court bearing witness.”

“I would support my betrothed in this, Father.” Jaime could see how the mere prospect of a bedding unsettled Lady Sansa, and truthfully, he had never cared much for the bedding ceremony. Women had always suffered more, even those who were not in such a precarious position as his lady, the drink removed the inhibitions of the men who swarmed the poor women en masse and tore at their clothing. He had seen women left with barely more than a scrap of fabric to preserve their modesty. At his sister’s wedding, unlike the Lady Sansa, Cersei had had her two brothers to protect her from the worst of it. With Jaime by her side glaring at the rowdiest men, and Tyrion kicking at shins and punching crotches, Cersei had escaped the ceremony relatively unscathed. No, Jaime decided, without brothers and family to protect her from Joffrey, his brutes, and any jumped up lordling eager to press his luck, there was no way he would desire for her to undergo the bedding.

Tywin rubbed his temples with his left hand and sighed. “Very well. If you’re both certain about this then I suppose we can forgo the ceremony.” The Hand fell silent, staring off to the side as he rubbed his hands together, deep in thought. Lady Sansa shot Jaime a quizzical look, he shrugged in response before tilting his head back to stare at the clouds above. Father would speak when he was ready, and not a moment before.

He felt a slight tap against his boot and glanced at Lady Sansa quizzically. ‘Thank you.’ She mouthed silently. Jaime nodded in response, before turning his gaze once more to the sky. A few tranquil moments passed as he tracked the journey of the white whisps across the soft blue sky. Jaime stretched, rocking his chair onto its hind legs, as he enjoyed the gentle caress of the late summer sun upon his skin.

With his eyes closed, Jaime could be anywhere in the realm.

He didn’t have to be caught in the middle of one of the most uncomfortable stand-offs in his life.

He could be on the white sand beaches that skirted the Rock, listening to the waves break upon the shore. When he inhaled the air was heavy with salt, not the stink of the city.

A sharp clap jolted him back into the present. He started, hearing the clank of his cage being latched. He teetered, on the hind legs of his chair, on the precipice of fight or flight. Jaime reached out to stabilise himself on the cage bars but did not meet the expected resistance. His fingers flexed, clawing at something that was not there to be touched.

Then, a firm hand around his bicep, his father’s hard green eyes. Jaime gasped, desperate for air like a man kept underwater for far too long. Lady Sansa, across the table, eyes wide and rosy lips parted, hand half raised.

Jaime inhaled again and pushed the air back out slowly. The ground once more lay firm beneath his feet, the wind dancing through the courtyard, ruffling hair and leaves, the pale blue sky above. His betrothed’s hand sunk slowly, first to the tabletop, then to her lap. His father did not release his arm, something that might have been concern filled his eyes. That look made Jaime’s skin crawl, that the ruthless Lord Lannister, scourge of the Reynes of Castamere, he who did not so much as blink at the loss of Jaime’s hand, he whose last tenuous thread to his humanity had snapped at the death of his wife, should look at Jaime with concern. Had he truly fallen so far?

Of course, at the deepest part of himself, Jaime knew that this concern was not for his sake, but for the family reputation. But it was still galling, that out of all his siblings and relatives, that Jaime should be considered the loose cannon.

I’ve been at war, he wanted to scream, I cut a bloody path to Robb Stark and I paid for it in the moons I was kept like a beast in that cage. I paid for it with the rest of my youth, with the gold in my hair, the skill in my bones, and my last scrap of honour. And I did all of it, _all of it_ , for the family. And what was my reward for it? When I finally dragged myself to King’s Landing, missing a hand and my life’s purpose, covered in mud and lice, with monsters in my soul, and a bone-deep exhaustion that has never truly left?

A lover who could not and cannot stand my company, who sent me from her presence with words of recrimination hounding my steps. A brother who loves me but has little time for me. A king who mocks me and my sacrifices before an uncaring court. And you, Father, whose only care is how I can help you further your own designs.

So I will take Sansa Stark, I will take the wife you have offered me, an innocent spirit who should have been untouched by war, who bears scars that would make a hardened soldier pale, and I will spirit her away from this city and its nightmares. She will have a happy life, Jaime swore, I will ensure it. It is impossible to go through life without pain and struggle, but I will shield her from what I can. She will live out her days surrounded by laughter and happiness and plenty. In times of turmoil, I shall be there for her, in whatever capacity she requires. It will not be a perfect life, but it will be a good one.

Filled with a new resolve, Jaime looked up, meeting his father’s gaze head-on. Emerald bore into emerald until Tywin broke the connection. This time radiating approval, and, _Seven Hells_ , wasn’t that almost as sickening as the concern?

Lady Sansa still watched him, a slight crease between her brows. Was she wondering what manner of life she had volunteered for, at the side of a husband so rattled by a simple clap? He shot her a rakish grin, hoping that she did not see it for the hollow thing that it was, praying that he did not look as wrung-out and fragile as he felt.

The crease did not go away.

“Well then,” his father said, “if we might get back to the matter at hand?”

Jaime nodded and the Lady Sansa murmured her assent, hands once more clasped in her lap, she turned her attention from son to father.

“As talk of securing the North can wait, this is my last condition for the betrothal contract, and it is one I must ask you both to abide by.” Tywin paused, eyes flickering from Jaime to Lady Sansa, drawing them both in. Jaime had to hand it to his father, for all his myriad social failings, the man knew how to captivate an audience. “The court, and the realm, _must_ believe that this is a love match.”

A beat passed.

Then two.

The Lady Sansa was still perfectly still, thoughts hidden behind her courtly mask as her eyes searched for meaning in the skies above. Jaime admired her poise, even as he himself could not keep from crying out.

“Father for what possible reason-”

“It’s perfectly simple, Jaime,” Tywin elaborated condescendingly, “this will protect you from sabotage and attack, both at court and abroad.”

Jaime fell back into his seat, puzzling over his father’s words.

“He’s right,” Lady Sansa said quietly, “my brother’s campaigns in the Westerlands will have turned your people against my family, but if I travel to Casterly Rock as your beloved wife they will think twice about retribution. The same theory would apply if we were both to travel North. The bannermen would not hesitate to liberate me from an unwanted marriage, but if they think it is a desired match…”

“You did not see the way that Karstark looked at me, he’d take my head off in a heartbeat, never once considering you.” Jaime scoffed, “many of them would kill me just for your claim to Winterfell, you’d be bundled off to the closest sept with an unmarried son before my body cooled.”

“You’re right Ser Jaime, it’s not a perfect defence, many of the lords would not take my preferences into consideration. In addition to which, the North will not forget your actions on the battlefield just because Ned Stark’s daughter loves you.”

“Admittedly the plan has its flaws,” Tywin conceded, “however, I believe that the ruse will make up for it when utilised at court and in the West. A love match will not be subjected to the same sabotages as an unwelcome match. The ceremony will take place in one month’s time, which would give our rival’s plenty of time to make their move. You two will present a united front. You will give them no weaknesses to exploit.”

“There is another benefit you have neglected to mention.” Lady Sansa’s shoulders were set as she stared his father down coolly.

“Oh?”

“A love match between Ser Jaime and myself would also allow you to distance yourself from the-” she paused, eyes darting quickly to Jaime then back to his father, “- _rumours_ regarding the King’s parentage.”

Jaime held his breath, his father had never before mentioned the incest rumours in his presence. He did not know whether the Lannister patriarch knew the truth or considered it to be slander. As it was, he needn’t have worried, the side of Tywin’s mouth ticked upwards and he looked, of all things, impressed with the girl’s courage.

“As you say, milady. Stannis Baratheon betrayed his good name to tarnish our family honour with unfounded rumours of the foulest nature. The marriage of my son, and the upcoming announcement of a betrothal between my daughter and Ser Loras Tyrell, will do much to improve our standing.”

Jaime bit the inside of his cheek, remembering the way his twin had stormed from the Hand’s chambers at that particular announcement. If Father ever managed to drag Cersei to the sept with the pillow-biter waiting for her at the altar, Jaime would wear a jester’s motley to the wedding feast.

Jaime decided to steer the conversation into less dangerous waters, “how do you expect us to be able to sell this story, Father? You’ll no doubt want to make the announcement within days, no one will believe that we fell in love that quickly.”

“Do you take me for a fool, boy? Since you came back to the city my servants have been spreading rumours for me. I have had a month to lay the foundations, and the court has lapped it up. Your display in the Great Hall yesterday served to solidify these baseless stories into something real. The rumours went from idle gossip to an incontrovertible truth in a single moment.”

“A month?” Jaime repeated, dumbstruck, “You’ve been planning this for a month? I only agreed yesterday!”

“It could be that I plan for success,” Tywin paused, a sinister look in his eyes, “or it could be that there was only ever going to be one way that this played out.”

Jaime shook his head, filled with bitterness.

Another choice that wasn’t a choice.

His father wasn’t finished though, “My servants have also been hard at work since we sat down for lunch. While we were being served, they were busy spreading the word. Everyone of any importance will have sent an observer to spy on us, those without any influence will have come themselves. No doubt if you were to look up towards the windows above the courtyard, you would see many curious faces staring back at you. Upstairs only, of course, we don’t want anyone overhearing us. To the court, after a month of courtship, and a lunch with your head of family, the betrothal announcement the day after tomorrow will seem like a natural progression. All that’s left is for the two of you to play your parts.”

“You have been exceptionally _thorough_.” Jaime ground out, trying not to choke on his bitterness. “Fine, I’ll do it. Not that you left us a choice.”

Lady Sansa sighed, eyes downcast, as she ran her fingers across something on the inside of her left sleeve. “Your terms are acceptable, my Lord Hand.” She said with absolutely no emotion.

Tywin inclined his head, gracious now in victory. “Are there any further terms you would like to add to the contract?”

“Yes.” Lady Sansa set her jaw, “I will have no part in your plans for my family.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Tywin said, waving off her concerns. “My plans for your brother have been set for months, this betrothal does not affect them whatsoever. Is that all?”

“I know- I know that- that my brother is-” she swallowed, tongue wetting dry lips, “that is to say- I know that nothing I say can save my brother.” She paused again, his father, in an uncharacteristic show of empathy, allowed her to proceed at her own pace, not showing any of the impatience he must be feeling. “My mother is just trying to protect the child that she has left, she is not- this could be the end of it. I would be grateful if she could be spared.”

Tywin pursed his lips, “I have no quarrel with Lady Stark, after all, she did return my son to me. If she can be reintegrated peacefully, I will order my men not to harm her. However, I will make no promises, these things rarely unfold as planned. Anything else?”

“No, my Lord Hand.”

“Excellent!” Tywin lay down his quill with relish, “Well, my dear, you have done an admirable job of negotiating your terms. Now all that remains is for us to sign and seal the document, and then everything will be official.” He lifted the lid of his writing box and retrieved from within two pouches and his personal sealing set.

The red pouch he handed to Jaime, it contained the seal and signet ring of the heir to house Lannister and sticks of cinnabar red sealing wax. Balancing the pouch on his prosthetic hand, Jaime ran a careful finger over the head of the roaring lion on the seal, the last time he’d seen the seal he’d been a boy of 16, newly appointed to the Kingsguard.

Lady Sansa, meanwhile, had frozen in the act of opening her own grey pouch. Her face was unguarded, for the first time since his return to court. Her lips were slightly parted, and tears ran unchecked down her cheeks, as she stared in awe at the wrought iron direwolf cradled within her grasp. How long had it been since she’d so much as seen her own sigil? How long since they had started punishing her for her own heritage? And now his father had handed her a Stark family seal without so much as a word, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Not for the first time, Jaime cursed the distance between them. His eyes traced the tears that still fell as she remained spellbound by her wolf.

Tywin finished signing his name and pressed his seal onto a large glob of red wax, the golden lion standing rampant as he waited for the wax to cool.

“This is mine?” Lady Sansa asked quietly, disbelievingly, her eyes never leaving the wolf, “This is mine to- to keep?”

Tywin looked up, eyes turning calculating as he took stock of the situation. “Of course, my dear, who’s else would it be?” He hesitated, then reached out tentatively and placed a hand on her shaking shoulder. Jaime’s eyes narrowed, what was Father’s game here? “And when you are wed you will be given a signet ring with both crests on it.”

“Oh,” a small smile curved her lips, as she lovingly traced an ear, “thank you, my Lord Hand, for arranging this for me. You have no idea what this means to me.”

“Think nothing of it.” Tywin said, awkwardly patting her shoulder before allowing his hand to fall to his side. “Now, I’m sure this has been a very trying day for you, so if you’ll just sign the document you can go back to your rooms.”

Lady Sansa nodded jerkily and swiped her hand down her left cheek, realising for the first time that it was wet. Jaime fished a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her. As she tidied herself up, Jaime signed and sealed the betrothal contract, sighing internally at the childish scribble his left hand produced. He slid the parchment across the table to Lady Sansa. The lady picked up the contract and read through it carefully, making sure there were no discrepancies. She returned it to the table and reached for the quill, her hand trembling in the air above it for a moment before picking it up and signing without hesitation. She carefully melted the grey sealing wax, before pouring a neat bead onto the bottom of the page and affixing her seal. She exhaled shakily before offering Jaime and his father a tight smile.

“Welcome to the family.” The Lord Hand tried to smile but bared entirely too many teeth. “Gareth here will escort you back to your rooms, I’ve asked him to package the remaining lemon cakes and to deliver them also. When you get to your rooms there will be two red-cloaks guarding your door, they will become part of your personal detail and have been given orders to prioritise your safety. Everywhere you go, you are to be escorted by at least one guard, or your betrothed. Later this afternoon a tailor will be sent to your chambers, you will be fitted for an entirely new wardrobe. After all, the future Lady Lannister cannot be seen in public wearing rags and cast-offs.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Sansa nodded jerkily, “Is that all?”

“For now, but you and I will be meeting most days to get you ready to assume your duties. We begin tomorrow. I will summon you shortly after the morning meal. Be ready.”

“Of course, Lord Hand, I look forwards to your tutoring.”

Jaime slapped his flesh hand to his mouth to hide his smile, a bolder lie had never been spoken.

“As do I Lady Sansa. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

“And you, my Lord, Ser Jaime.” Lady Sansa spread her skirts and dropped into an elegant curtsy.

With that she took her leave, Gareth falling into step by her side, large box of cakes in his arms.

Jaime dropped back into his chair and heaved a bone-weary sigh. He cradled his head in his hand as he waited for Lady Sansa to be out of earshot.

“You’re not being particularly subtle.” Jaime pointed out quietly, reclining in his chair as soon as his betrothed’s back had disappeared around the corner.

Father quirked an eyebrow, managing to look stupendously unimpressed. “About what?”

“An hour ago, you were threatening her with a lifetime of rape and torture, now you’re patting her on the shoulder and calling her ‘my dear’. She’s going to see through you, _especially_ if you keep trying to smile at her.”

“It will work. My soon to be good-daughter has been isolated from friends and family for three years, she must be desperate for any scrap of affection and safety.” Tywin said with iron-clad conviction, “all young girls need a paternal figure to guide them and mould them into upstanding and respectable ladies. Lady Sansa has been without since Joffrey liberated Ned Stark’s head from his shoulders, it seems only natural that her good-father should step up to the responsibility.”

“Well fatherhood has never really been your area, has it?” Jaime drawled

“One could say that I’ve learned from my mistakes.” The Lord Hand said coldly, standing to stare down at his son.

Jaime snorted, “You are a very talented man Father, but I fear that this may be beyond you.”

Tywin planted his fists on the table and loomed over Jaime. “An abused dog, even a broken one, can be unpredictable when pushed too far, it may choose to bite the hand that feeds it. A loyal, well cared for dog, or wolf as the case may be, can be relied upon to protect its owner, to follow commands. Sansa Stark is going to be a _very_ well cared for wolf. Her loyalty will be to you and me, and whatever whelps you manage to get on her, before all others.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! can't believe I cracked 5k on a single chapter!
> 
> Can y'all believe I managed to turn this into a fake dating au lmao
> 
> Some notes on characterisation:
> 
> 1) I realise Jaime's gotten on board with this fairly quickly, the reasoning is that he's lost his defining skill, his job, and his lover and doesn't really know what to do with himself so he's latched onto Sansa. No, this is not a healthy method of coping. Yes, it will be addressed. 
> 
> 2) While I do sometimes enjoy 'papa tywin' fics, this is not one of them. He's a conniving old bastard but he has his shortcomings. He does respect Sansa, but he's also a bit of a misogynist, so he's definitely underestimating her. 
> 
> Funnily enough, this is an area where Cersei is actually better than Tywin. If she hadn't burnt the bridge already, she might have been able to pull off this parental role Tywin's trying to fill.
> 
> He's also not going to do much to save Cat, he might say 'if you can avoid it' but he's not going out of his way to do anything.
> 
> 3) Sansa is still a teenager and is still a little naive, which is why she asked for Tywin to save Catelyn and why she believes that if Robb is killed, Cat will just roll over and go on with her life. She's still clinging to a little bit of hope. 
> 
> 4) I've been having Jaime refer to Sansa more formally, which is why there's so much 'the Lady Sansa', 'his betrothed', 'the young lady', etc. As they get closer that'll melt away a bit, and I'm so fucking excited to just be able to drop it all for a plain 'Sansa'
> 
> Sansa does not really respect any Lannister, which is why she just uses their first names in her head.
> 
> Thanks for reading! See you next time in Sansa 2, I am so pumped to not be writing this conversation anymore and to have the characters actually do something!


	4. Sansa 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shae huffed a sigh, carefully shedding all of her irritation at her added workload to reveal a small kernel of concern. “How did your meeting with Lord Tywin go?”
> 
> “I am betrothed.” Sansa’s voice was as empty as she felt, every emotion scraped out of her, leaving only a paper-thin husk of herself behind.
> 
> “To him?” Shae snarled, eyes afire, “That dirty old bastard! This-”
> 
> “No, not him. His son.”
> 
> “Lord Tyrion?” Shae’s voice was sharp and high with alarm. A small part of Sansa was warmed that her maid cared so much for her, no doubt she was outraged at this final indignity.
> 
> “The other one, the Kingslayer.”
> 
> “Oh,” Shae’s relief was palpable, “well that’s not so bad, is it?”
> 
> “Oh yes,” Sansa said scathingly, “I may be forced to marry into the house that’s destroying mine but at least I get to marry the cripple instead of the imp!”

In truth Sansa could not remember the walk back to her chambers, one moment she was standing in the shadow of the Hand’s tower, the next she was inside her own weirwood doors, box of lemon cakes in her arms. The box slowly tumbled out of her arms and onto the floor, with an understated thump, joined by Sansa moments later as her legs finally gave out. She crumbled, back sliding down the wooden panel, scabs catching and tearing on the hard wood. There was a warmth on her back and a warmth on her cheeks as liquid spread and pooled and dribbled. Sansa knew that it was ruining her dress, her scrap of home in this foreign castle, but could not bring herself to care. After all, had Tywin not said he had arranged for her to have a new wardrobe made? Surely he meant for her to dispose of her old clothing? To divorce her from her past and mould her into the perfect bride for his successor?

Sansa’s dresses may be old and ragged, they might not fit anymore, they might be obviously patched and mended, but they were hers. Some of them had been taken from Winterfell, stitched by her mother’s hand. Some had been commissioned in King’s Landing by her father, in that brief idyllic period before the gold veneer had flaked away. Most had been embellished by her own hand.

They were _hers_.

(And then there were the other dresses, the ones she had received from Joffrey, a gift to his betrothed, and some from his mother as well. These were the best preserved and best fitting of Sansa’s dresses, but the least worn. They stood in the back of her wardrobe, only brought out for royal events and hearings at court. To curry favour with the royal family, or to be destroyed by the Kingsguard.)

Sansa keened, a low mournful note, at the loss of this last material link to home and self before slumping onto her side. For a while she lay there, numb to the pain in her back and the hard embrace of the stone floor, only conscious of the pain inside.

* * *

The sunlight glinting off of metal eventually pierced the swirling miasma of her thoughts, Sansa sat up, curiosity moving her to seek the glimmer out. She had little enough jewellery, and that was kept out of sight under her bed, the room also had no metal adornments, and she was only allowed access to her embroidery supplies under supervision, the fine scissors deemed too dangerous to be left in the hands of a traitor’s daughter.

She slowly crawled to her feet, eyes sore from weeping now over-sensitive to the light, and cast her gaze around the room. Nothing was out of place, save for the breakfast tray still resting on her dining table, silverware gleaming in the harsh afternoon light.

What was that still doing here? Shae should have removed it hours ago, maybe she forgot?

The remaining tea was by now stone cold to the touch. The porcelain was still covered in crumbs, strewn with orange peel, and stained with juice, cutlery arranged delicately above. Sansa picked up the knife, running a critical eye along the sharp as an idea slowly spun into existence.

The blade was still stained with butter and preserves, so Sansa fetched the ever-present jug of water from her dresser and brought it over to the window. She carefully sluiced water over the blade to remove the bulk of the waste, then wiped the remainder off on her skirts. Sansa rinsed the knife once more and then carefully dried it.

She carried the blade to her bed and knelt before it, she lay her left arm upon the mattress and arranged the fabric of her sleeve so that she could stare upon her embroidered Lady.

The loss of her wolf was an ache that had never truly gone away. There was a ragged, raw part of her psyche, an absence in something that had once been whole, a connection that had ruptured the second her father’s knife had found its way into the heart of her wolf.

And then Lady had been gone.

Lady, who had been good and kind, murdered by the hands of the man Sansa had trusted most in the world, a man known across the realms for being _just_ and _honourable_.

Had that been the beginning of the end for Sansa’s relationship with her father? Or had it started years earlier?

She knew that Father had loved her, in the way that all parents loved their children, but she also knew that there was a distance between them that had never really been bridged. In her darkest moments, both before she had left Winterfell and after, she wondered whether Father had actually _liked_ her.

Perhaps that was why she had so easily fallen under the Lannisters’ spell, caught up in the heady feeling of being appreciated and people enjoying her company, hollow though those sentiments turned out to be. Perhaps that was why she had run to Cersei, trusting the Lannister woman to look out for her best interests over her own father.

And hadn’t that turned out well?

Now she was asked to place her life and wellbeing in the hands of another Lannister, and not just any Lannister but the twin of Cersei, and, if rumours were to be believed, the father of Joffrey, the worst of all of them.

There was a part of herself, a spark of innocence that she had been unable to snuff out, that told her that maybe everything would work out for the best. After all, had she not once dreamed of marrying a famous and handsome knight? Jaime had not seemed so very bad, he’d tried to make her laugh during their conversations, he had stood up for her before the court yesterday, and again against his father during the negotiation, and he had thought to have a pillow brought for her chair back. Not so very bad at all.

Sansa fingered the hilt of her knife as she tried to quash the kernel of hope before it grew any larger.

But then again, Jaime had duelled with her father in the streets of the city, slaughtering an entire squadron of household guards, and Jory Cassel, with the aid of his men. He’d then ridden out of the city to escape the King’s justice and fought against her brother’s forces.

No, Sansa decided, Jaime Lannister could not be relied upon. He might be handsome and charming, but hadn’t she once thought the same of Joffrey? It had been proven, time and time again, that the only one Sansa could depend upon in this sun-baked hell-hole was herself. It was not a lesson she needed repeated.

She took a deep breath to steel herself and positioned the knife in the air above her sleeve, there would be no mending this, so she had to do it well. Her blue eyes caught on gold and she smiled sadly to her Lady before plunging the blade down.

* * *

“You silly girl!” Shae exclaimed from the doorway, “what have you done?”

Sansa smiled wryly, amused at her maid’s irreverence, “You know most nobles would be angry if their servants spoke to them like that.”

Shae’s sharp brown eyes raced across Sansa’s chambers, cataloguing everything that was amiss, from the torn bedding to the new stains soaked into the back of her dress. “I’ll speak to you however I damned well please when you make such a mess without a care for them that have to clear it up!” She gestured angrily to the bed and its shredded covers. “This is the second bed I’ll have had to replace since I’ve been working for you!”

“I know,” Sansa said quietly, levity now all but forgotten. “I’m sorry. It was wasteful of me.”

Shae huffed a sigh, carefully shedding all of her irritation at her added workload to reveal a small kernel of concern. “How did your meeting with Lord Tywin go?”

“I am betrothed.” Sansa’s voice was as empty as she felt, every emotion scraped out of her, leaving only a paper-thin husk of herself behind.

“To him?” Shae snarled, eyes afire, “That dirty old bastard! This-”

“No, not him. His son.”

“Lord Tyrion?” Shae’s voice was sharp and high with alarm. A small part of Sansa was warmed that her maid cared so much for her, no doubt she was outraged at this final indignity.

“The other one, the Kingslayer.”

“Oh,” Shae’s relief was palpable, “well that’s not so bad, is it?”

“Oh yes,” Sansa said scathingly, “I may be forced to marry into the house that’s destroying mine but at least I get to marry the cripple instead of the imp!”

“Watch your tone.” Shae snapped, “there are plenty of women who have been forced into more undesirable positions than being made to marry the heir of a Great House.”

“Well, if I meet one, I’ll make sure to pass on my _deepest_ sympathies.” Sansa seethed, “how dare you tell me that I shouldn’t be upset! The man slaughtered his way through my kinsmen, men I’ve known since childhood, just to get a shot at my brother, and you tell me I should be grateful it’s not worse?”

“Get a hold of yourself! You cannot possibly be still expecting a miraculous, happy ending where your brother rides through the city on a white horse to rescue you from the Lannisters and spirits you back North.”

“No,” Sansa said, feeling as though the ice-winds of her homeland were blowing through her, “if there’s one thing my betrothed’s long incarceration in brother’s dungeon has shown me, it’s that I cannot count on Robb to save me, even when he has the means.”

“Oh, sweet girl,” Shae’s eyes softened as the fight left her body, she closed the distance between them and enfolded Sansa in a warm embrace. With a sob she turned into the embrace, clinging onto Shae and burying her face in the other woman’s shoulder. The Lorathi always smelt of clean laundry and cinnamon, a combination that now soothed Sansa almost as much as the circles Shae was rubbing on her back.

“We’ll get through this, you’ll see.” Shae reassured her, “it won’t be as bad as you fear.”

* * *

The dressmaker and her assistants had worked through the night in order to have the first of Sansa’s new dresses ready by morning light. To her surprise, the dress was in Stark colours, a lovely soft grey with white accents. Though still cut in the southern fashion, the dress felt a little bit like home. It was the closest Sansa had gotten to feeling like a proper Lady of the North in years.

She’d had Shae plait her hair back into a simple Northern braid from temples to crown and leave the rest loose to fall in gentle curls down her back.

So garbed in the style of her homeland, Sansa felt ready to venture once more into the Old Lion’s den.

This time as she exited her chambers the Lannister guards fell into step behind her, following the lead of their future lady rather than bracketing a traitor’s sister. Sansa threw her shoulders back and strode with purpose towards the Hand’s chambers, no longer needing to hide herself beneath notice. The few courtiers awake at this already rather late hour tracked her movements with mute disbelief, servants paused in their chores to watch her pass by, many taking off, no doubt to report to their masters this new development. Only lovely, simple Lollys Stokeworth seemed not to sense anything amiss, with a shy smile she raised her hand in greeting to Sansa.

Sansa smiled in return, pausing a moment to exchange greetings before continuing on her way. Lollys had always been a rather shy creature, even before the King’s Landing riots, as a result, the lady had few companions and was scarcely seen around the court. On the eve of the Blackwater, however, she had taken a chance on Sansa and followed her into Maegor’s Holdfast. Since then, Lollys had always treated Sansa with warmth, uncomprehending of the line drawn by Joffrey between Sansa and the court. Though Lollys still rarely ventured from her chambers, she made it a point to greet Sansa if their paths crossed. The girl was sweet, a rare flower in the thicket of brambles that was the court, and so Sansa made sure to always treat her with kindness.

The rest of the walk was uneventful, and, without having to contend with the late morning crowd, Sansa was able to make good time and arrived at the Hand’s solar a handful of minutes before the eighth bell. She was admitted immediately, without even being announced. Inside she found Tywin working at his desk.

“Ah,” he said, setting down his quill. “Good morning Lady Sansa, it’s good to see that you do not share the court’s fondness for sleeping away the better part of the morning.”

Sansa smoothed down the back of her skirt and took a seat opposite the Lord Hand. “No, my Lord Hand, in fact, my favourite time of day is the early morning, when the castle is quiet. It gives one time to think without distraction.”

Tywin’s pursed lips told her that he had divined the true reason for her love of early mornings but mercifully he did not linger on the subject. After carefully moving his paperwork to one side, Tywin planted his elbows on the desk and observed Sansa over steepled fingers.

“Usually, this process would be done over several moons, if not years, and by a lesser personage than the head of house. However, we are short of time and, with the majority of my household remaining in Casterly Rock, there is no one else available to teach you, so we will just have to make the best of it. Are you prepared to learn from me, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa nodded, not trusting herself to words

“Then let’s begin.”

* * *

After her lessons had ended for the day, Jaime met her in the Hand’s solar to accompany her to the gardens and sit with her as she worked on her stitches. It would be their first planned opportunity to convince the court of their love. Tywin had seen them to the great doors at the base of the Hand’s Tower and bade them farewell in full view of the occupants of the middle bailey, which Sansa noted was more highly populated than was usual. No doubt news of her early morning meeting had brought most of the castle’s nosier occupants out of the woodwork.

Pretending not to feel the weight of their interest on her back, Sansa dipped into a graceful curtsey. Also playing his part, Tywin sketched a respectful bow in response before, while steadfastly ignoring the flurry of interested whispers rising through the courtyard, bidding the young couple to 'enjoy the last of the summer sunshine’.

After Tywin had taken his leave, Jaime had turned to her with a charming grin, carefully taking her left hand in his own he raised it to his lips for a kiss, gazing up at her through his lashes all the while. Sansa stared back, captivated by the green ringed in gold. There was no doubt that he was a stunning man, just as comely as his twin, the most beautiful woman in the realm. At times like this, it seemed that his recent turmoil had done little to tarnish his golden veneer.

Jaime straightened without breaking eye contact, gently tucking her hand into the cradle of his left elbow. They were almost of a height, so Sansa was unable to gaze up at him like a lovesick fool, she settled for a smile, trying to recreate what it had felt like to smile at Joffrey when he’d still been her golden prince.

Judging by the twitch of Jaime’s lips she was not sure she had succeeded.

The pace Jaime set for their walk was slower than what would have come naturally to either of them, however, it was perfect for two lovers eager to prolong their time with one another. It also had the distinct advantage of allowing the court to easily track their movements. Once they reached the gardens, the Lannister guards would clear loiterers from within earshot, but not eyeline, and they would be able to speak somewhat freely, but for now they talked of inanities and anecdotes safe for court consumption.

Sansa could admit that Jaime played his part well. His body was always attuned towards hers, once even steadying her as she stumbled, flesh hand occasionally coming up to cup hers where it rested in the crook of his arm, and he seemed to hang off her every word, eyes intent when they met her own.

Sansa’s own charade felt hollow by comparison, even as she giggled, blushed, and walked closer to him than was strictly proper. Even as it was not all artifice, for who could fail to be charmed by such treatment?

If he noticed, Jaime did not make mention of it, and it was with some relief that Sansa saw the gardens ahead. True to his word, Jaime’s men had cleared a corner of the rose gardens for them and had even gone so far as to set out a rug for them under the shade of a purple blossoming tree. Two baskets, one full of fine cheeses and fruits and the other containing her embroidery supplies, waited for them alongside an amphora of no doubt expensive wine and plush silken pillows.

Her heart sung to be out in the sunshine with no fear of discovery and reprisals by Joffrey, or indeed any other self-serving denizen of the court, rather than tucked away out of sight and mind. While she had come to love the godswood as a mostly private sanctuary, and it certainly had its own charms, there was a certain freedom to being out in the open air, and who would seek to bother her with the Kingslayer by her side?

She fair skipped the last few paces into the garden, smile becoming more real as she pulled Jaime in her haste. The scent of roses and lavender hung heavy in the air, the flowers themselves magnificent in bloom. Roses in all shades but the beautiful blue winter rose of her homeland. She stopped by the first garden bed, Jaime also coming to a rest by her side as she bent to smell a pale golden rose, cupping the delicate bloom in her free hand.

“I confess,” Jaime began, to fill the silence as they lingered, “I have not had much experience in courting. Once, my father sent me to Riverrun to court your aunt Lysa but I believe I spent the entire time shadowing your great-uncle, the Blackfish. Learning from a famous swordsman like Ser Brynden was, at the time, a much more appealing prospect than wooing young ladies.”

“That’s okay,” Sansa said, wondering if she should be more bothered that her betrothed was of an age to have courted her mother’s younger sister. “The only person who has ever courted me was Joffrey.”

Jaime snorted, “Ah, it is somewhat comforting that we are both as inexperienced as one another in this regard. I wonder if we should ask my father for advice?” Some of Sansa’s horror must have shown on her face, for he quickly followed it up with; “I jest, my lady, I have no desire to find out what my father considers to be romantic, or an appropriate act of courtship. Even the notion!” He affected a face of disgust and shuddered. Sansa’s giggle caught them both by surprise, but it was soon joined by Jaime’s deeper laugh.

“Flowers might be a good place to start?” she suggested, casting a critical eye over the garden’s offerings.

“You are absolutely correct, my lady, however, at present preparing a rose for you is a bit beyond my capabilities.” He waved his golden prosthesis in small circles to emphasis his predicament, the fingers eternally frozen in position, unable to grasp a stem and hold it steady.

“Ah! Of course, please forgive me, I had quite forgotten.” Sansa blushed, wringing her fingers nervously, hoping that she had not touched upon a sore spot.

Ser Jaime’s grin turned melancholy, “it is no matter, I myself have forgotten on occasion.”

“Well, perhaps I might cut a bloom for you, my lord?” Sansa offered, hoping to dispel the pall that had settled over the knight.

“I would be honoured to bear your token, my lady,” he said, offering her the knife from his belt. “Might I request that you cut a second rose, a purple one, for yourself?”

“Of course,” Sansa smiled as she carefully took the knife, ignoring the bristle from the Lannister guards, and turned to the bushes before her. A lovely, closed rose, in a stunning shade of dusky purple, caught her eye. Taking care to avoid the thorns, she neatly cut through the tough fibres of the stem and handed it to Jaime, before surveying the gardens in search of a rose for her betrothed. As she walked between the beds, leaving him where he stood, none of the roses called out to her, they seemed almost too plain for a storied knight.

Just when she was about to give up and return to Jaime with a lesser flower, a small bush, hidden in the far corner of the garden, caught her attention. The bush was hidden behind the larger bulk of the manicured roses, perhaps a wild bush that had grown beneath the notice of Lady Margaery’s ladies, who had taken over the care of the garden, or a sickly bush unexpectedly surviving. She selected another closed bloom, this time the flower was a pale shade of gold that bled into a deep burgundy near the tip of its petals.

As she walked back to Jaime she plucked the thorns from the stem and presented it to him with a flourish. He laughed, eyes sparkling, as he noticed the Lannister colouration of the rose, and nervously presented her with the purple bloom, likewise shorn of its thorns. Though he had not been able to remove the thorns as neatly as herself, and she noted some abrasions to the stem and bruising on the petals, she also saw several small scratches on his fingertips where he had stuck himself trying to remove the spikes with his off-hand. She beamed at him, pleased to watch his anxiety melt away like ice on a warm day.

Sansa stepped closer to him, cursing her cheeks for their warm blush, and threaded the rose carefully through a buttonhole in his jerkin. Before she could step away, Jaime brought his golden hand up to cup her elbow, arresting her movement. Biting his lower lip in concentration, he gently pushed the purple rose into the braid at her left temple, securing it so that it would not fall out as she moved.

With a blush, he pulled back, but this time Sansa, remembering that they were supposed to be in love for their audience, prevented him from removing himself to a more proper distance and reverting to the scripted courtesies of unfeeling courtship. Capturing his hand, she spun away and started pulling him towards their waiting picnic. As she looked back at him, with a far wider grin than any she had affected since the shattering of her dreams, she noted an oddly childlike look on his face, a roundness to the eyes and slackness to the features as he followed after her.

* * *

The picnic was lovely, of course. Full of cured meats, and a selection of cheeses, breads, crackers, and ripe fruits. It was more food than her entire family would have eaten in a single meal, and yet here it was deemed a suitable amount of food for a single couple. The South’s culture of excess perfectly encapsulated in a single basket.

Sansa’s particular favourite was a creamy cheese from Ashemark, with a soft rind, and she could not help a small hum of pleasure as it melted across her tongue. Jaime grinned, as he always seemed to do when he fancied he’d caught a glimpse behind her mask, she wondered if he was aware of it. He did not seem to make any effort to conceal his true thoughts, so reactive to everything, his moments of gloom, even his frustrations with his father yesterday, had been as clear as day to her. In public he had played the part of the charming suitor to perfection, even now, out of earshot, he still played his part, leaning towards her and hand feeding her the occasional bite.

But there was still something fragile about him, a certain vulnerability she’d gleaned in each of their meetings, his hesitance in front of the Court, the way he’d startled at lunch, and the almost shy way he’d offered her the rose, as if fearing rejection. There was something volatile too, how he’d snapped at the King on her behalf and the fury and resolve in his eyes as the full extent of the Lord Hand’s trap had been revealed.

There were hidden depths to the Kingslayer, Sansa was sure, a mystery hidden deep beneath layers of affability.

And despite everything, Sansa found herself almost intrigued.

He leaned over to her, offering her another slice of her favoured cheese, which she took with a demure smile of gratitude. He was watching her closely, she realised as she bit into the cracker, secreting away information about her, but for what purpose?

“You know,” he said conversationally, reclining back on his elbows, “when I was younger I absolutely loved to eat Ashemark cheese with a grape pressed into the soft centre.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I do not remember how it started, only that I did it until Father caught me and told me that it was not proper for an heir to play with his food before eating it.”

“Was it pleasant to eat?”

He shrugged blithely, “I certainly enjoyed it.”

Well it was worth a try, wasn’t it?

Dragging herself into a seated position, Sansa cut two generous slices of that wonderful gooey cheese and placed them on crackers, from the basket she produced a stem of plump red grapes. Sharing a conspiratorial glance with Jaime, she pressed a grape into the centre of each. Passing the spare to Jaime, she regarded her cracker for a moment before, rather indelicately, shoving the whole thing in her mouth. The grape burst in her mouth, lending the savoury cheese an unexpectedly delightful balancing sweetness.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, hand coming up to cover her still full mouth.

“Is it not good?” he asked nervously, and there was that insecurity again, what reason had she given him to fear her reaction?

“No, no,” she waved off his concerns, “I was expecting to not like it, but it’s actually really good!”

He smiled back at her, concerns apparently assuaged, and consumed his own treat. His eyes closed in pleasure as he savoured the odd combination of flavours.

“Even better than I remembered.”

Between the two of them they easily polished off the whole wheel of Ashemark, and most of the grapes, then, appetite sated, Jaime reclined, flinging an arm over his eyes, and grew still. Sansa shook her head, amused at the similarities between the knight and one of Tommen’s kittens, soaking up the sunlight after a large meal.

Turning away from her betrothed, she looked around furtively, before unobtrusively fishing a grey scrap of fabric out of her bodice. The cloth had jagged, frayed edges from where she’d had to saw through it with the butter knife, but she’d taken that into account when cutting it, leaving a larger than usual margin to compensate. Her first order of business would be to trim off the loose ends and then straighten out the edges. Sansa smoothed it out on her lap before turning to her embroidery basket. The maid in charge of transporting her supplies to wherever they were kept obviously took no care with them, her supplies always seemed to be jumbled together, even though she _knew_ that they were always neatly arranged when she surrendered them.

Picking through the loose floss, she located her scissors, a gift from her mother’s father, the scissors were a gleaming silver covered in delicately carved scales. An exact match for her mother’s own embroidery scissors, which she herself had used since she was a girl. Sansa had coveted those scissors since she had first begun her needlework, disdainful of the dull, utilitarian Northern scissors favoured by the other women of the castle. She had been overjoyed to receive a pair of her own for her tenth name-day and had cared for them fastidiously. Even now, all these years later, the blades still sliced cleanly through the fabric, making her trimming the work of a moment. The remaining cloth, once hemmed, would be around the size of a handkerchief, not that it would be used as such.

Sansa hummed to herself as she worked, a lullaby from the Riverlands that her mother was especially fond of. The next step was to hem it, she chose a matching grey floss so that it would not detract attention from the border she planned to add on top. She selected a sharp-pointed needle from her leather needle-case, usually when working with embroidery she’d use a blunt-tipped needle, but here it wouldn’t be suited to the tight weave of the brocade. After years of making clothing for both herself and her family members, hemming was a mindless activity for Sansa. The floss was a slightly lighter shade than the cloth, but not eye-catchingly so.

The godswood was lovely and private, but there was something soothing about stitching in the open air of the rose garden. The dappled sunlight and light floral aroma was uplifting, she did not have to strain her eyes to stitch as she did in the shadows of the godswood, and even Jaime’s half-asleep presence was not so terribly unwelcome.

When Jaime eventually bestirred himself, it seemed that he was content to keep her company as she worked. He followed her progress with unveiled curiosity, and none of the impatience she might have expected.

“I have memories of sitting at my mother’s feet as she worked on her needlepoint,” he said softly. “I used to love watching her work, she’d let me play on the floor and talk to her as she stitched, and then when she was done for the day, she’d show me what she’d accomplished.”

“My mother was much the same. I used to envy her skill and grace, so as soon as I was old enough to hold a needle, I would practice for hours at a time so that I could be like her.”

“Cersei never had much patience for needlework, I don’t think she so much as picked up a needle after Mother passed.”

“Neither did Arya, she couldn’t sit still long enough and saw little value in the practice.” Sansa could be amused by it now, but at the time it had driven her mad with irritation.

Jaime tilted his head to better see what she was working on, “This is a wolf?” he asked curiously.

“Yes.”

“Your wolf?”

“My wolf,” she murmured, “my Lady.”

“Lady.” He repeated, something odd in his tone. She did not dare look up for fear she might find pity swimming in his eyes, or, perhaps even worse, to find nothing. As if Lady’s death, her _execution_ , had been nothing, had meant nothing to anyone but herself.

A hand, _his_ hand, came up to cover her hand where it clasped the needle. “It grieves you still.” He observed, voice grave.

There was a catch in her throat, and a warmth in her eyes, that Sansa had thought she’d banished years ago, so she nodded, afraid of what might come out should she open her mouth.

“These things stay with us, I think.” He said, voice pitched low like he was soothing a startled horse. “For all our days, they remain, colouring our every interaction and act. All we can do is learn from it.”

“But what if I didn’t?” She cried, eyes snapping up to meet his and finding only warmth. “I know that I’m a slow learner, but I didn’t! Not at all! It showed me what a -” she cut herself off, horrified that she had almost let slip so much.

“It’s okay,” Jaime said with an understanding smile. “I am fully aware of my nephew’s shortcomings; you need not censor yourself around me. Though I would ask that you be conscious of volume when in public places.”

Sansa offered a tight smile in return, deciding to offer him this one truth in a show of calculated vulnerability, “I _saw_ what he was, and yet I did not believe it. I rationalised it away as a momentary anger, never to return. Never to turn on me. Arya saw it clearly, but I did not.”

Jaime reached across the space between them to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, a blush rose to her cheeks that was not entirely feigned as he tilted his head towards her as a lover might when whispering words meant for no other ears but her own. “My father has a favourite saying, a lesson that he will no doubt impart to you when he deems you ready; when a man shows you the truth of his character, _believe_ him. And now you will, for the rest of your life. It is not a mistake you will make again.”

Sansa nodded, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek as she remembered the way Tywin Lannister had snarled at her from across the table to cow her into submission, the way his eyes had been as cold and implacable as ice, freezing her to the core. She remembered the sudden shift, like being plunged into a pool of warm water. A comfort at any other time, but a searing pain to the extremities left frost-bitten by their earlier interaction.

“A good lesson to learn, my lord.” Sansa said, allowing her fingers to trail down his stubble dusted cheeks as she lowered her hand.

“Jaime.” He said, suddenly almost shy as he intercepted her hand before it could reach her lap. “We are to be wed, I should like it if you were to call me by my name.”

“Jaime,” She repeated, trying it out. “Then you must call me Sansa.”

* * *

Later that evening, as Shae unbound her hair in preparation for sleep, Sansa found herself dwelling upon Jaime’s expression as he had allowed himself to be pulled forward by her. The game had changed, the pieces reset in an unfamiliar pattern, and yet Sansa did not fear it. This time, at least, she knew the truth of the game; the rules and the stakes, the punishment for failure, and the main players. Was it possible that, should she act carefully, she had been given all she needed to survive, or even to prosper?

“You see,” Shae murmured, handing her the lavender coloured rose, “not so bad after all.”

Sansa brought the rose up to her nose and inhaled, savouring the delicate scent.

No, not so very bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> A couple apologies to get out of the way!
> 
> 1\. Sorry It's been so long without any warning! Things just kept happening and I wasn't able to find much time to write so have had to chip away at it slowly :(  
> 2\. Likewise I haven't had a chance to sit down and answer reviews from the last chapter yet, but I hope to do so this weekend (I have read them all and thank you all so much for your kind words! I'm absolutely loving reading everyone's unique take on the story :) )  
> 3\. Uni has started again so updates are going to be a little more sporadic from now on
> 
> In other news, I have finally sat down and revised my story plan. As I am apparently incapable of sticking to the original plan I have changed the no. of expected chapters to ? we are now looking at 20-30 chapters covering three distinct arcs but that could go up. (and also i keep getting ideas for a sequel that was never in the original plan, but i'm not sure if that will eventuate yet (will be laying the groundwork just in case))
> 
> The Tywin one-shot will be published after the wedding chapter! Which is probably about 6 chapters away.
> 
> I would also like to remind you all about the unreliable narrator tag particularly in regards to Sansa's chapters :)
> 
> Next up Jaime!


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